Chapter Text
Aemon Targaryen/ Jon Snow
Red Keep 102 AC
The small council chamber was fraught with tension, the weight of urgent matters pressing upon the gathered assembly. The small council chamber echoed with the muted sounds of deliberation as Aemon moved gracefully among the attendees, the rich aroma of wine lingering in the air. King Jaehaerys Targaryen presided over the gathering at the head of the ornate table. The matters at hand were grave, the urgency in the room palpable as the council convened to address the pressing issue of the Wildlings encroaching upon the Wall.
Seated around the table were the key figures of the small council, each with their sphere of influence and expertise. Lord Otto Hightower's furrowed brow and stern countenance mirrored the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. Aemon noticed that Lord Otto had yet to come up with any decisive information to aid the North.
To his right sat the recently appointed Grand Maester Runciter, his chain of office clinking softly as he shifted in his seat. The man was old and near death, it took much time to become a maester, and even more to be any maester of note worth becoming the grand maester of the Red Keep. Aemon did not think the man would live another decade. Prince Viserys Targaryen had sat there but did more listening than speaking.
The Master of Coin, Lord Lyman Beesbury's calculating gaze was assessing the potential financial strains on the realm. Across the table, the ever-dutiful Corlys Velaryon undoubtedly strategizing the best approach to secure the coastlines.
At the side of the table, Ser Ryam Redwyne, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, presented a formidable presence, his white cloak flowing regally as he listened intently to the unfolding discussions. The small council, a confluence of minds and expertise, wrestled with the complex challenges posed by the Wildling threat.
The tension in the small council chamber thickened as the dire situation Beyond the Wall took center stage in the discussion. King Jaehaerys Targaryen, his countenance a mix of restrained anger and composed authority, addressed the gathering with a question that hung heavy in the air.
"How many Wildlings have crossed the Wall?" the King inquired, the calmness of his voice belying the underlying intensity.
Maester Runciter, a chain of office glinting in the dim light, began to share the grim reports. "Conflicting claims persist, Your Grace," he admitted, the weight of uncertainty evident in his tone. "Some say fifteen thousand men south of the Wall. Most estimates agree it is over twenty thousand."
Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Ships, interjected with a pragmatic assessment of the North's military capabilities. "The North has over forty thousand men, Your Grace. They have more than twice the force to repel the invaders," he asserted, his gaze unwavering.
However, Maester Runciter countered with a sobering reality that transcended mere numbers. "Even with superior numbers, the Wildlings are wreaking havoc. They show no strategic pattern, destroying and burning villages and crop fields with reckless abandon. They're using fire as a weapon, setting the entire North ablaze." he explained, emphasizing the chaos unleashed by the invaders.
Lord Lyman Beesbury, Master of Coin, voiced concern about the economic toll of the devastation. "The North's resources are being systematically razed. We should provide aid to protect our investments and stabilize the region," he suggested his focus on the broader repercussions of the Wildlings' rampage.
King Jaehaerys leaned forward, his eyes narrowing with a mix of frustration and concern. "How did the Night's Watch allow the Wildlings to breach the Wall?" he demanded, directing his question at the maester who held the realm's knowledge.
Maester Runciter responded with a grave expression, "The Wildlings climbed the far west side of the Wall. Once over the western portion of the Wall, they began traversing eastward, leaving destruction in their wake."
Prince Viserys, ever direct, sought answers. "Why has the North not planned a counterattack yet? This is an invasion; they should be ready to defend their lands," he asserted, challenging the apparent lack of proactive measures from the Northern lords.
Lord Otto Hightower, Hand of the King, offered a pragmatic perspective. "The Wildlings are attacking indiscriminately. They give the North no time to consolidate their forces for an organized counterattack. It's chaos, Your Grace," he explained, acknowledging the severity of the situation.
King Jaehaerys, his brow furrowed in contemplation, turned to the council for insight. "What is the Night's Watch planning to do? We cannot leave the North to face this threat alone," he stated firmly, seeking a decisive course of action.
Maester Runciter coughed and hacked as he breathed and tried to speak, his older age catching up to him as he was old even before becoming a maester,. "Your Grace, the Night's Watch is currently engaged in fierce battles to the North. They are overstretched and cannot divert resources to face the Wildlings who have made it south," he reported, his voice laden with concern.
Lord Lyman Beesbury leaned forward, his brow furrowed. "How did the Night's Watch allow so many Wildlings to breach the Wall? Even if the Wildings came from the west, over two thousand men were sent to the Wall after most keep in the realm emptied their dungeons. Surely, they knew their duty was to protect the realm."
Maester Runciter interjected, "The Night's Watch faces internal strife. Some brothers, disillusioned and rebellious, have fled the Wall. They are beyond our reach, camped beyond the Wall, further complicating the situation. Nearly five hundred are beyond the Wall after the few rebellions and mutinies that had taken place."
Prince Viserys, his impatience evident, spoke up, "So, because of a few rebellions and deserters, we are to leave the North to face this threat alone? Unacceptable."
Lord Otto Hightower, the Hand of the King, countered, "We cannot ignore the reality, Your Grace. The Night's Watch is crippled by internal conflicts. Sending reinforcements might not be enough to turn the tide."
King Jaehaerys, his brow furrowed, addressed the council. "What is the likelihood of calling the other lords to muster their forces and march north to aid the North against the Wildlings?" he inquired. He then turned to the Lord Commander, making it clear who the question was for.
Lord Commander Ryam Redwyne, his white cloak billowing, spoke with a solemn tone. "Your Grace, a royal procession alone would take a month to reach Winterfell. Assembling the armies of the realm would consume a better part of two months. If everything went perfectly—no days to rest, sufficient food, favorable weather, and no unforeseen challenges—it would still take nearly five months more to march the entire force north. And that's only to Winterfell; the Wall lies even further north."
The men continued to argue and debate on what actions needed to be taken. Aemon looked to Lord Hightower; Aemon knew in his heart the Lord Hand was not adding any beneficial information because the North was allied with Aemon, and in turn, Daemon weakening the North meant weakening Daemon. They continued to argue, but most of the information circled and agreed with one another, save for the fact that none of the information went to aiding the North but more so of the fact that the North needed aid, to begin with, and that the Crown must supply it. If the Crown did not aid the North in a time of peril, it would showcase a dangerous president that the Crown would let the realms suffer if the danger was only for one kingdom. Aemon hated all of it. He may have been weak in the ways of politics, but he knew how to fight, and the North needed people to fight.
Maester Runciter, with a sense of urgency, added to the grim assessment. "Your Grace, with the current pace of the Wildlings' advance from beyond the Wall coming south, they would reach the Wall well before any significant support could arrive. The North would be left to face an onslaught of nearly a hundred thousand Wildlings with no hope of reprieve."
King Jaehaerys absorbed the dire information, his mind racing to find a solution. "So, by the time our armies reach the North, the damage would already be done," he remarked with a heavy sigh.
As the debate continued, Viserys, his brows furrowed, raised a pertinent question. "Why can't the Tullys or Arryns send their troops to aid the North? They are the closest and could provide swift support."
Lord Otto Hightower, maintaining his composed demeanor, responded, " "The Arryns are currently dealing with a delicate situation in the Vale. A number of Stone Crows have been causing unrest, and the deaths of Lady Jeyne Arryn's father and elder brothers years ago, have not quelled the Stone Crows' bloodlust. Sending troops from the Vale could worsen the situation rather than improve it." He continued, "As for the Tullys, their relations with the Starks have been strained since Prince Daemon and Princess Lyanna. The incident where they ran away together, breaking Lyanna's betrothal to House Tully, has left a lingering bitterness. It may not be wise to rely on the Tullys for immediate aid."
"Enough of this bickering," Aemon proclaimed, his voice resonating through the chamber. The young prince spoke with a clarity and conviction that demanded attention. There was no anger or rage; it was more akin to tiredness, tiredness of politics, and a need for action. "The longer we argue, the less time the North has to survive. Winter is coming, and it does not wait for men to prepare. Those who don't prepare will freeze and starve." He turned his gaze toward King Jaehaerys, addressing him directly, "Your Grace, you have dragons and riders. Send them to end this before it spirals out of control."
Lord Otto Hightower, feigning kindness, retorted, "Prince Aemon, the affairs of the realm are more complicated than a boy's understanding."
Aemon, unyielding, responded, "If I am a child, then I know how children argue. The small council is doing just that when we should be executing results, not merely reacting. When a building is on fire, one doesn't fix it by pointing it out; they fix it by pouring water on the flames."
King Jaehaerys looked at Aemon with a solemn expression. "Aemon, my boy, I have no dragons to send forth. I am too old to make such a journey on dragon's back, and Viserys must stay behind to guard the city. There should always be a dragon rider in King's Landing, and he needs to learn how to rule from me. Your father, Prince Daemon, is holding his position against a possible Dornish invasion. As for your cousin and aunts – Viserra, Aerea, Rhaella, Daenerys, Saera, Rhaenyra, and Maegella – they are too young for such battles, and their dragons are not yet old enough for such a fight. We have no dragon riders available to handle the situation and fly to the North in time to aid them."
As the small council continued their heated debate, the realization of the limited options available became increasingly apparent. Each suggestion was scrutinized, debated, and often dismissed. The urgency of the situation clashed with the logistical challenges of mobilizing a force to the North.
The king acknowledged the practical challenges, understanding that it would take months for the Crown's forces to reach the North. Nevertheless, the message conveyed in those letters was clear – the Crown would not tolerate any threat to the stability of the realm. Whether it was to save the North or avenge its fall, the Seven Kingdoms would unite against the common enemy. The room, though still tense, acquiesced to this decision, recognizing it as the best available option given the circ*mstances.
Aemon's frustration simmered beneath the surface as the discussions in the small council unfolded like a convoluted tapestry. The reality of inaction gnawed at him, a stark contrast to the urgency that the situation demanded. His mind, a labyrinth of thoughts and reflections, delved into the intricacies of the predicament.
The Wildlings, a hardy and resilient people, were driven by necessity. Their harsh lives beyond the Wall had forged a survival instinct that surpassed the boundaries of kingdoms and politics. Aemon pondered the motivations that had propelled them to march south, challenging the imposing barrier of the Wall. Was it desperation, an attempt to secure resources for the impending winter, or was there a more sinister force guiding their actions?
Amidst the political maneuvering and debates, Aemon felt a deeper, more personal connection to the looming danger. His thoughts traversed the corridors of time, drawing parallels between his current life and the one he had led as Jon Snow. The weight of responsibility pressed upon him, a burden he carried with the knowledge that the destiny of the realm rested on the decisions made in these tense council chambers.
The room echoed with the clashes of opinions, but Aemon's mind delved into the core of the matter. The Wildlings, driven by primal instincts and a relentless pursuit of survival, were a force to be reckoned with. The Night King's army, an amalgamation of generations, threatened to plunge the North into chaos and destruction. Aemon, fueled by a resolute determination, vowed silently to confront this menace head-on, armed with the wisdom of a past life and the weight of a future unknown.
The Wildlings, a formidable force numbering a hundred thousand, possessed the strength to overwhelm the Night's Watch and seize the Wall. The logical progression of their advance should have seen them battering at the gates of Castle Black, yet the eerie calm persisted. Aemon questioned the motives behind this apparent restraint. Was it a tactical decision, a diversion, or did an unforeseen force govern the Wildlings' actions?
The uncertainty clawed at Aemon's thoughts, a disquieting presence that fueled his relentless search for answers. The Wildlings, driven by survival instincts, had shown a penchant for chaos and destruction in their southward march. The absence of an immediate assault on the Wall confounded the conventional expectations of warfare.
Aemon's contemplations traversed the spectrum of possibilities – a hidden agenda, a leader's indecision, or perhaps a force beyond the realm of mortal understanding at play. The mysteries of the far North, where ancient magic and forgotten truths lay dormant, cast a long shadow over the unfolding events.
The Wildlings' decision to withhold their full force from assaulting the Wall presented a conundrum. Their knowledge of the North and the Night's Watch, like a two-edged sword, cut both ways. A lack of recent encounters had shrouded the Wildlings' understanding of the Wall's defenses, just as the Night's Watch remained unaware of the formidable army assembling in the far North. The Wildlings did not have a King Beyond the Wall at some time, and without a King Beyond the Wall, there would never have been a Wilding army capable of fighting the entire North. Due to the Night's Watch and the Wildings not having a true war against one another in some time, neither fully understood how much the other force had in number. If the Wildings knew how many Night's Watchmen there, nearly six thousand, then the Wildings would have rushed and attacked the Wall already.
After two hours of intense discussion, it became evident that no consensus could be reached on an immediate, effective course of action. Despite the lack of a concrete plan, King Jaehaerys made a decision. Letters were to be written and sent to every lord in the Seven Kingdoms, urgently informing them of the threat beyond the Wall. They were instructed to ready their men for a march, as a demonstration of the Crown's commitment to defend the realm.
Alone, in his chambers, at night, Aemon pondered the Wildlings' strategy – a strategic dance with the unknown, a gambit where the element of surprise held considerable weight. The wild expanses beyond the Wall harbored ancient secrets, and the Wildlings, under a yet unknown leadership, chose when and where to unveil their strength.
The recurrence of a divided Wildling force – a vanguard to the south while the main host approached from the north – whispered of a tactical acumen that struck a chord within Aemon's memories. It resembled a tactic he had once encountered, a maneuver that had left an indelible mark on Aemon, or rather, Jon Snow.
As the fragments of recollection danced in the recesses of Aemon's thoughts, the answer lingered just beyond his grasp. The complexity of the Wildlings' approach mirrored a past encounter, his encounter with them as Jon Snow, an eerily similar scenario that eluded the grasp of immediate recognition.
The knowledge of the Night's Watch's strength, numbering six thousand, weighed heavily on Aemon's thoughts. The current count surpassed the figures from his previous life as Jon Snow, and he couldn't shake the unsettling awareness that this time, the challenges were greater, the stakes higher.
The mutinies within the Night's Watch had sown discord, reaping a grim harvest of five hundred lives lost in brutal battles. Another five hundred had managed to escape, seeking refuge in a ramshackle fortress that would eventually evolve into the notorious Craster's Keep. Aemon's understanding of the North's intricate web of events, past and present, informed him of the make-shift defenses erected by these deserters.
The five hundred deserters refortified the keep with ditches and wooden walls to hold off from invasion, from what the scouts could discern. The fortified keep, now housing the renegade Night's Watchmen, stood as a symbol of defiance beyond the Wall. Craster's Keep had become a haven of outcasts, a makeshift bastion ensconced in the frozen wilderness. The wooden walls, though rudimentary, spoke of a resourcefulness born out of necessity, a desperate attempt to secure safety amidst the unforgiving landscape.
Aemon's contemplations brought forth a chilling realization. The path of the Wildling army, heading from the north to the south towards the Wall, would inevitably intersect with Craster's Keep and the renegade Night's Watchmen dwelling within. These deserters, who had managed to cause the internal strife of the Night's Watch, would reveal critical information to the approaching Wildlings.
The deserters, having knowledge of the Night's Watch's numerical strength and the manned castles along the Wall, unwittingly held a key to the Wildlings' understanding of their adversaries. If the Wildlings reached Craster's Keep, they would be privy to crucial intelligence about the Night's Watch's composition and fortifications. This knowledge, in the hands of the Wildlings, could alter their strategic approach and potentially hasten their assault on the Wall.
The Wildlings in close proximity to the deserters could expedite the timeline of their attack on the Wall. The original estimate of a month or more might be reduced to a mere week if the Wildlings, informed by the unwitting Night's Watch deserters, opted for a swifter and more aggressive approach.
Aemon's mind churned with questions and concerns as he pondered the purpose behind the initial wave of Wildlings, the vanguard of the impending invasion. Why had twenty thousand Wildlings crossed the Wall ahead of the main force? Was it a strategic maneuver to sow chaos and confusion, a deliberate attempt to distract the North and strike at the Night's Watch, which lacked the formidable defenses of the southern regions?
The implications were dire. The North, vulnerable and unprepared, would bear the brunt of the initial onslaught. The Night's Watch, lacking substantial fortifications from the south, would be vulnerable to a southern strike as it was designed after one Lord Commander tried to make himself king, and the Stark Kings brought him down and destroyed any southern walls to ensure it never happened again The vulnerable south of the Night's Watch would become a primary target for the advancing Wildlings, unleashing havoc and death in their wake. Aemon grappled with the harsh reality that the North could crumble before the other kingdoms could rally sufficient forces to mount a defense.
Understanding the urgency of the situation and driven by a sense of duty, Aemon found himself echoing the sacred vows of the Night's Watch, words that had transcended time and resonated through the ages. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins..." The solemn oath, etched into the very fabric of the Night's Watch, became a rallying cry within Aemon's heart. Without a second thought, he walked to a small bookcase that was in front of a painting of Aenys and Maegor playing as children as Aegon looked on to his sons. Aemon moved the painting ever slightly and found a small opening that was too small for a man to use but just enough for a child of six to worm into.
Navigating the labyrinthine passages with an almost instinctive familiarity, Aemon traversed the hidden corridors within the Red Keep. These clandestine pathways, remnants of Maegor the Cruel's reign, were known to few, and Aemon's knowledge of them was a testament to the secrets woven into the very foundations of the castle.
The air within the concealed passages was thick with dust, undisturbed by the casual observer for years. The narrow confines created an atmosphere of solitude, a clandestine realm insulated from the grandeur and intrigue that played out in the visible chambers of the Red Keep. Dim light filtered through the thin walls, casting feeble glimmers into the secretive passages, just enough to guide Aemon's way.
The stables were shrouded in shadows as Aemon approached, his movements silent and deliberate. The air within carried the familiar scent of hay, straw, and the musky fragrance of the horses. Aemon's chosen mount, a small black colt gifted to him by his father Daemon, stood patiently in its stall, its eyes reflecting the dim light.
Aemon's fingers traced along the smooth surface of the colt's mane, a comforting touch that conveyed both purpose and reassurance. The horse, attuned to its rider, responded with a nudge as if understanding the gravity of the moment. The young Targaryen prince, burdened by a sense of duty and urgency, moved with practiced ease as he prepared his steed for the journey that lay ahead.
He fastened a simple, well-worn saddle, its leather telling tales of previous adventures. Aemon's hands moved deftly, securing each strap with the precision of someone who had spent countless hours in the company of horses. The colt, spirited yet obedient, stood still, seemingly aware that this was no ordinary outing.
He had waited for when the gates opened, hidden away and out of the sight of the guards, for lords who had been arriving late into the night from the brothels. Once the doors opened, he rushed through and quickly made sure to lose any trace of followers by making far too many turns for any of them to follow; at one point he even made four left turns, enough to return to his same starting point and rushing down the path while any followers, which there were none, Aemon was paranoid, would be lost after following the first turn going straight. The night cloaked Aemon's movements as he swiftly made his way from the Red Keep to the Dragonpit. The rhythmic beat of his horse's hooves echoed in the empty streets, a clandestine symphony under the shroud of darkness. He rode with a purpose, the urgency of the impending threat propelling him forward.
Approaching the Dragonpit, Aemon dismounted and led his horse through the shadowed entrance, seeking the concealed path that would take him to the heart of dragon lore. The Dragonpit held a mystique that transcended time, and at night, it looked like a mass of darkness, with torches only illuminating such a small portion of the structure that it looked like only the fires glowed and that it did not showcase any of the structure save for the dark silhouette.
Navigating the dimly lit corridors of the Dragonpit, Aemon's footsteps were silent against the aged stones. His heart was beating far too quickly for his liking and yet the familiarity of such fears was a comfort in itself because fear meant he was alive, and equally as important, sane, and not yet mad like some of his future family members, Aemon did not count Maegor the Cruel as mad, because he was like Tywin Lannister and he was not considered mad. Aemon moved with the quiet determination of a sworn protector, driven not only by the immediacy of the Wildling threat but also by a sense of duty ingrained in the vows he bore.
Aemon heard a voice in his head; he had spoken too soon, and he was mad. The voice was a contradicting thing, the sound of a thousand angelic whispers and the sound rumbling from the depths of volcanoes. The ethereal guidance whispered through the corridors of the Dragonpit, the resonance of an ancient tongue weaving intricate instructions into Aemon's consciousness. The voice, resonating like the reverberations of molten earth, directed him with otherworldly wisdom, its origins embedded in the cryptic depths of high Valyrian.
Aemon, entranced and humbled by the guidance, moved with a newfound certainty. The labyrinthine passages of the Dragonpit, once a potential maze at night, espically since far too few torches were lit inside at night, now unfurled before him as a guided path. The voice steered him away from patrolling guards, concealed him in the shadows at crucial moments, and guided him toward the elusive heart of the Dragonpit.
As Aemon delved deeper, he felt an unspoken connection between his purpose and the ancient language echoing in his mind. It was as if the very stones of the Dragonpit whispered secrets of a time when dragonlords ruled the skies. The voice, a manifestation of an age long past, wove its narrative into Aemon's quest, a harmonious blend of fate and duty.
Aemon followed the voice to a familiar opening cavern, an enclave large enough to swallow the Red Keep twice over. The night sky did almost nothing to illuminate the darkness of the large opening. It was nothing but blackness and darkness; it was as though this large opening was the end itself, and Aemon was walking into the end with open arms. Aemon recalled the last time he had come to this place; it was through Vermithor's own territory, but the way he came may have been the way in which the dragon he sought out first carved and opened this large area but due to it being far too dark for human eyes to see Aemon would never know how wide of a passage the one he took was.
The cavern beneath the Dragonpit, expansive and shadowed, seemed to hold its breath as Aemon lingered in the darkened embrace. The silence hung heavy, broken only by the distant echoes of the city above. Aemon, patient and vigilant, felt the resonance of power pulsating through the very rock beneath him.
Then, as if the earth itself acknowledged his presence, a subtle vibration coursed through the cavern. The ground trembled, and Aemon sensed the stirring of something ancient, something deeply embedded in the roots of the world. The anticipation heightened, and the air crackled with latent energy.
As the tremors intensified, Aemon knew that the time had come. It was a familiar sensation, one he had felt the last time he entered the Dragonpit, under different circ*mstances. The earth responded to the ancient call, and Aemon braced himself for the revelation that awaited in the heart of the cavern.
The rhythmic cadence of colossal footfalls echoed through the cavern, a prelude to the arrival of an ancient and indomitable force. Aemon, standing in the dim illumination of the Dragonpit's depths, felt the air itself warp with the immense heat radiating from the approaching behemoth. The oppressive atmosphere seemed to thicken as Balerion the Black Dread, the embodiment of dragonfire and dread, drew near.
As the shadows coiled around the colossal dragon, its massive form began to materialize—a living obsidian monolith, an avatar of Targaryen might and power. The cavern, accustomed to the weight of its ancient resident, now quivered with the anticipation of unleashed power. So hot was the air coming from its body that the heat nearly melted stone. Aemon could barely even see the creature; the darkness of night masked Balerion like clothes do bare skin. Aemon did not know of any battles of Balerion during the night, but Aemon realized that Balerion seemed thrice as terrifying as before. At night, with no concept of his size and no clear visibility, Balerion looked like the night, the night alive, the night made flesh, the night taken form. It was as if all the night's darkness, all the missing sights were nothing but Balerion himself. One did not know where Balerion started, and the darkness ended.
Balerion's eyes, ablaze like molten rubies, bore into Aemon with a fierceness that transcended the passage of centuries. All Aemon could clearly see was the blood-red eyes of Balerion in the darkness, larger than Aemon, high into the skies, somehow glowing like the coals of a forge. The dragon's aura resonated with unrestrained wrath, a seething emotion tempest that surpassed mere beasts' realm. The sheer scale of the dragon, coupled with the intensity of its gaze, conveyed a timeless presence—a creature that had borne witness to the eons and would continue to endure.
As Aemon stood before the colossal dragon, the question hung in the air: Was he worthy of the ancient bond shared between the Targaryens and their dragons? Balerion, with eyes ablaze and wings folded, waited for the young prince to reveal his essence, to lay bare the core of his being.
Aemon, though dwarfed by the immensity of the dragon, refused to shrink beneath the weight of the scrutiny. The dragon's tooth alone was over twice the size of Aemon's entire body; the black tooth shone enough for Aemon to see himself in the reflection. If not for the torch Aemon had taken just before arriving, Aemon would have seen nothing, and in that nothing, the darkness would have consumed him. His gaze, unwavering and filled with determination, locked onto the molten eyes of Balerion. In that silent communion, Aemon conveyed a promise—an unspoken oath to uphold the legacy of House Targaryen.
The dragon rumbled, a deep and resonant sound that seemed to emanate from the very heart of the cavern. It was not a growl of hostility but a challenge for Aemon to meet. The air shimmered with latent power, a connection waiting to be forged between dragon and rider, a bond that transcended the boundaries of time and mortality.
Aemon took a step forward, his resolve unbroken. He raised his hand, and for a moment, it seemed as if the colossal beast would strike. Yet, as the seconds ticked by, a subtle shift occurred—an acknowledgment, a recognition of the Targaryen blood coursing through Aemon's veins.
Aemon took this as a sign to get closer. He took another and another. He reached his free hand to the ladder leading to the mount atop the dragon's back, more a net than a ladder, truly. Aemon grabbed the rope, took the first step upon the ladder, and ensured his footing by testing his weights twice before taking the next step. Balerion's long neck turning to allow the dragon to glimpse at Aemon as he rose higher.
The colossal maw of Balerion yawned wide, a cavernous entrance to an infernal realm. The flickering glow within signaled the imminent release of an elemental force that could incinerate armies and melt stone. But the flicker of flame made no light. Aemon had only seen it for a fraction of a second, and it was not because flames made light. No, somehow, it contradicted its own nature, and the flames took the light from everything around it; the black flames took light from a place that had almost none. Time seemed to halt for an instant—a heartbeat suspended in the silent tension of the Dragonpit.
Yet, in the face of the imminent torrent of flame, Aemon did not falter. His gaze held the fiery eyes of Balerion, an unspoken challenge returned in kind. Aemon stood on the net. This was how dragons were; one must be worthy of being their rider. The larger, more powerful, and the older the dragon, the deeper the need for one to prove to the dragon they were worthy.
As the fiery glow intensified within Balerion's gaping maw, the air around Aemon seemed to sizzle with the impending release of the dragon's breath. Once shrouded in shadows, the cavern now danced with the flickering light that heralded the destructive power about to be unleashed.
Aemon stood his ground, facing the imminent torrent of dragonfire with a resolute stare. The heat swelled, the anticipation building as Balerion prepared to unleash the destructive force that had instilled fear across generations.
Aemon Targaryen was standing resolute before the colossal form of Balerion the Black Dread. The cave was hot as magma, and the sulfur smell of the seven hells encompassed Aemon's senses as the young prince, though cloaked in the awe-inspiring presence of the dragon, uttered words in the ancient Valyrian tongue. Aemon spoke to Balerion, his voice strong and resolute; no fear was heard, even if Aemon felt it in his heart. Aemon said the words that he had read in Aegon's dagger the last time he was here.
"Hen issa ānogar, māzigon kivio dārilaros se zȳhon jāhor sagon se vāedar hen suvion se perzys."
But just as the flames were on the brink of bursting forth, something shifted within the ancient dragon. Once on the verge of consuming the young prince, the fiery anticipation now retreated. A subtle quiver passed through its colossal frame, and the searing inferno held at bay. The molten glow within Balerion's throat dimmed, and the imminent threat of annihilation receded.
Balerion, the Black Dread, regarded Aemon with eyes that seemed to pierce the very core of his being. The ancient Valyrian words echoed through the cavern, resonating with the magic that bound dragons and riders through time.
As Aemon uttered the High Valyrian incantation, the young Targaryen and the colossal dragon formed a connection. It was a bond woven with the threads of ancient sorcery and the shared destiny of dragonlord and dragon. The air itself responded to the words, vibrating with a resonance that transcended the ordinary.
At that moment, the fiery potential that had threatened to consume Aemon transformed into a manifestation of raw power. The molten glow that contradicted itself by consuming the light and darkness within Balerion's throat shifted, not in preparation for destruction, but as a response to the unspoken contract being forged. The flames pulsed with an otherworldly rhythm, an acknowledgment that this was no ordinary encounter. Balerion, the Black Dread, accepted the unspoken vow, and in that shared moment, a silent understanding passed between dragon and rider.
Aemon continued on. The closer Aemon got, the more he felt like Balerion was too large for this very world. This was the creature that did the most during the Conquest. This was the creature that made the Iron Throne. His climb to the dragon was slow, and while Balerion looked at Aemon, it was as though Aemon walked and climbed with purpose, but one could not walk without fear when the predator of the territory was waiting for you to make a mistake, waiting for the guard to be done and eat you.
The ascent of Aemon Targaryen, scaling the mammoth form of Balerion, unfolded in a slow dance between man and dragon. The cavernous expanse of the Dragonpit bore witness to the unlikely pairing, a small figure against the vast shadow of the Black Dread.
The climb was arduous, and the labyrinth of ropes seemed an intricate puzzle. Aemon, fueled by a determination beyond his years, persisted until he reached the pinnacle of Balerion's back. There, against the backdrop of scales that glistened like midnight, the boy secured himself to an oversized saddle meant for a full-grown rider. Aemon, a mere speck in the grandeur of Balerion, sat resolutely in the saddle.
The saddle on Balerion's back, a stark juxtaposition against the majestic dragon's gleaming scales, bore the scars of functionality rather than aesthetic refinement. It stood as a testament to utility, a tool fashioned for the raw purpose of riding into the heart of unknown realms. It was asymmetrical, crude, and distinctly unadorned—a far cry from the opulent trappings of royal steeds.
Aemon, strapped onto this unwieldy apparatus, gripped a handle that seemed to have endured countless journeys. The young Targaryen, undeterred by the saddle's lack of elegance, sat resolute in his pursuit. As he urged Balerion to move, the massive dragon responded to Aemon's command, muscles rippling beneath obsidian scales. The cavernous chamber echoed with the sound of his steps.
"Jikagon, Balerion, jikagon!" Aemon's voice, firm and determined, cut through the air. The ancient dragon, heeding the call, carried the small figure atop his back towards the cavern's entrance. The journey into the unknown awaited, and the unspoken bond between rider and dragon set the stage for a destiny that unfolded with each resolute step forward.
The rhythmic thunder of Balerion's footsteps reverberated through the cavern, each stride shaking the very foundations of the subterranean realm. Aemon, perched atop the dragon's back, felt the vibrations course through his being, a testament to the immense power of the creature beneath him. The entrance was too small for Balerion; it should have been big enough for Vhagar, maybe if Balerion were fifty or sixty years younger and far smaller. It was so small that Ameon realized that Balerion had not left the caves in decades.
As Balerion approached the cavern's exit, Aemon's mind churned with questions. How had the great dragon survived in this confined space for decades? What sustenance sustained such a colossal beast in the depths of the earth? The young Targaryen's thoughts raced, the mysteries of Balerion's existence weaving a tapestry of wonder and intrigue. The dragon, however, exhibited an unwavering determination to traverse the smaller entrance. Aemon clung to the crude saddle, eyes wide with anticipation. Balerion slammed into the cave entrance as the stalactites and stalagmites fell and crumbled. The earth shook as Balerion slammed into the entrance with enough force to crumble keeps and castles.
The resounding tumult echoed through the Dragonpit, a symphony of destruction as Balerion, the Black Dread, burst forth into the open. Rubles and rocks are flying and careening in all directions. The explosion of stone and rock flying into the Blackwater Bay. Dust and clouds of grim and dirt covered everything around them as the form of the Black Dread began moving through the smoke and dust it covering his body like a blanket. It was as though Balerion was the largest arrow ever shot as he was covered in rubble and dust, like a gray comet. The very earth quivered beneath the dragon's colossal form, and Aemon clung to the ungainly saddle, a witness to the raw power unleashed by the mighty beast.
Balerion's immense wings unfurled, stretching like the shadowy wings of a dark deity, and with a mighty beat, the dragon ascended into the night sky. The ground trembled with each powerful thrust, and the fragmented remnants of the cave's entrance crumbled in the wake of Balerion's emergence.
King's Landing, nestled below the Dragonpit's hill, felt the shockwaves of the dragon's escape. Balerion took serval flaps of his wings before the dragon that had broken out of the ground bellow the cliff that the Red Keep rested on, began to ascend high into the skies, higher then the Red Keep. Buildings trembled, and the citizens, caught in the grip of unexpected fear, looked skyward, unsure of the source of the seismic disturbance.
Aemon, atop Balerion's back, clung to the saddle as the dragon soared higher, leaving the shattered entrance and the Dragonpit behind. The night air rushed past them as they ascended, a swirling current of wind and freedom. Aemon's heart raced with a mixture of exhilaration and trepidation; his destiny intertwined with the legendary creature that bore him aloft.
Beneath the colossal silhouette of Balerion, King's Landing lay cloaked in the dragon's shadow. The only thing showcasing the dragon mid-flight was the countless stars in the sky; whenever Balerion passed, his black silhouette covered the stars enough for his form to be seen. The monstrous wings, a span that seemed to span the entire heavens, eclipsed the celestial bodies, casting an otherworldly darkness upon the city. The roars echoed through the night, a proclamation of Balerion's return to the realm of the living. The large black dragon covered the moon and stars, and the white light of the stars and moon was blotted out by the large body. It was as though the shining night sky was nothing but a blackened abyss.
As the deafening echoes of Balerion's triumphant roars resonated through the night air, the people of King's Landing stirred from their slumber. The city was plunged into a surreal scene between awe and terror. The ancient dragon, whose existence had been shrouded in myth and legend, had emerged with a ferocity that demanded attention.
"Sōvegon, Balerion, sōvegon!" Aegon roared.
Back in the skies, Aemon clung to the saddle atop Balerion's back, the wind whipping through his hair as they soared through the night. The city, now far below, looked like a sprawling mosaic of flickering candles against the encroaching darkness.
Aemon's small form clung to Balerion's scaled back, his eyes wide with wonder and amazement. His fingers tangled in the coarse mane of the dragon, feeling the warmth of Balerion's body beneath him. The night air was crisp, and Aemon's cheeks flushed with the cold as he grinned from ear to ear.
As Balerion soared through the skies above King's Landing, Aemon's first flight became an exhilarating dance between fear and awe. The dragon's colossal wings, each beat a hurricane-force gust, propelled them forward with a speed that defied earthly limits. The sheer force of Balerion's wings threatened to tear Aemon from the saddle, sending him momentarily airborne before he desperately secured himself once more.
The winds rushed past him, tousling his unruly black hair and pulling at his cloak. The sensation was exhilarating, a wild dance with the elements. Aemon's heart pounded in sync with the dragon's wings, the thud echoing through his chest. He felt alive, liberated from the constraints of the ground, a creature of the night sky.
In the midst of this soaring journey, Aemon couldn't contain his joy. He threw his head back and howled into the skies, a sound of pure elation that echoed through the night. The dragon beneath him responded with a mighty roar, its scales shimmering in the moonlight. The bond between rider and dragon deepened with each passing moment, a connection forged in the crucible of flight.
The city of King's Landing unfolded below like a sprawling tapestry, its intricate patterns illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight. The Red Keep, with its towering spires, stood as a sentinel against the night sky. The city's countless structures, from the modest dwellings of Flea Bottom to the opulent estates of the nobility, formed a mosaic of light that shimmered in the darkness. As they ascended higher, Aemon's eyes widened at the breathtaking sight.
The Red Keep, with its sprawling courtyards and formidable walls, looked like a miniature fortress from their vantage point. The winding streets of King's Landing, normally teeming with life, were now silent and tranquil beneath the dragon's shadow.
The rush of wind against Aemon's face carried with it the scents of the city — a mixture of saltwater from the bay, the aroma of hearth fires, and the faintest hint of blooming flowers. Balerion's wings continued to beat with a rhythmic force, creating a mesmerizing symphony that resonated through the night.
Aemon's gaze wandered beyond King's Landing towards the horizon where the vast expanse of the Crownlands stretched out before them. The rolling hills, the distant forests, and the shimmering waters of Blackwater Bay came into view. It was a panorama that few had witnessed from such heights, and Aemon marveled at the beauty of the world unfolding beneath Balerion's wings.
As they continued their flight, Aemon clung to the saddle, the rush of wind and the unparalleled view etching memories of his first flight into his mind. The thrill of the skies, the sights of the world below, and the realization that he was now part of a mythic tale unfolded before him, promising an interesting story for future history books.
As Balerion ascended higher into the night sky above King's Landing, Aemon clung tightly to the dragon's back, his small hands gripping the scales. Despite Aemon's attempts to command the mighty beast, Balerion seemed to have a mind of his own, ignoring Jon's wishes and soaring even higher into the vast expanse. Balerion seemed to revel in his newfound freedom, disregarding the commands of his young rider. The wind howled around them as they ascended beyond the clouds, the air growing colder and thinner. Aemon's fingers tightened around the scales beneath him as he held on for dear life.
The city lights below began to resemble distant, twinkling stars as they climbed above the clouds. Aemon's eyes widened with a mixture of awe and trepidation as Balerion pushed the boundaries of the night sky. The air grew colder, and the atmosphere thinned, but the dragon showed no signs of slowing down.
Then, abruptly, Balerion ceased his powerful wingbeats, halting his ascent. The sudden stillness in the air left Aemon momentarily breathless and weightless. Before he could comprehend what was happening, Balerion executed a breathtaking maneuver. The dragon flipped gracefully in the air, his massive form twisting against the backdrop of the moonlit clouds.
The world seemed to spin around Aemon as Balerion faced downward, hurtling toward the ground with alarming speed. The sensation of weightlessness enveloped Aemon, his stomach lurching as the dragon descended in a controlled freefall. The wind roared in Aemon's ears, drowning out any other sound, and his black hair whipped wildly around his face.
Balerion's wings remained tightly folded against his body as the dragon executed the daring descent. The night air rushed past them like a torrent, and the city lights blurred into streaks of color. Aemon's heart raced, a thrilling mixture of fear and exhilaration coursing through his veins.
The descent continued faster than Aemon could have imagined. The ground below loomed closer, and Aemon's screams of glee mingled with the wind's howl. It was a heart-stopping moment, a plunge toward the earth that defied the conventions of gravity. In those fleeting seconds, Aemon felt truly alive, suspended between the heavens and the world below.
As Balerion neared the ground, the dragon opened his wings with a powerful beat, arresting their descent just above the city's skyline. The sudden change in momentum sent a jolt through Aemon's body, and he clung to Balerion, breathless and exhilarated. The dragon leveled off, soaring low over the city, and Aemon, despite the initial shock, couldn't suppress the laughter that bubbled up from deep within. It was a laugh of triumph, of conquering the night sky alongside a creature born of legends. Aemon turned to Balerion as the dragon looked back, and Aemon dared say the dragon looked smug with every faint twitch of its lips showing a smile.
As Aemon guided Balerion through the skies toward the North, the wind rushing past them carried a chill that spoke of the skies' icy embrace. Aemon, drawing from his experiences as Jon Snow and former rider of Rhaegal the Emerald Death, expertly handled the dragon's reins, ensuring a steady and controlled flight. Aemon knew from experience it would take a day and night, with no rest and stops, to reach Winterfell itself. But it only took a bit more than half that time to reach the Riverlands.
The Riverlands unfolded beneath them, its terrain a patchwork of fields, rivers, and woods. Aemon knew well the lingering resentment the River lords harbored for House Targaryen, a sentiment rooted in the tumultuous past of his parents, Daemon Targaryen and Lyanna Stark. Aware of the uneasy reception he might face, Aemon decided to press on without lingering in the Riverlands.
With each beat of Balerion's powerful wings, the landscape transformed below. As Aemon pressed onward, his thoughts turned to Winterfell and the Wall, symbols of his past and the looming threat beyond.
Balerion, the mighty Black Dread, was an awe-inspiring sight against the sky. As they approached the familiar territory of the North, Aemon couldn't help but feel a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. The North was his ancestral home, and Winterfell held the memories of his upbringing as Jon Snow.
As night fell, Aemon decided to descend and find a secluded spot to rest. Landing Balerion in a quiet valley, Aemon dismounted, feeling the weight of his journey and the burden of the responsibilities that lay ahead. The embers of a long-dead campfire hinted at past travelers who had found solace in this hidden alcove.
Aemon gathered some dry wood and kindled a fire, its flickering light casting shadows on the rugged terrain. He leaned against a rock, contemplating the path he had chosen. The rhythmic crackle of the flames provided a comforting backdrop to his thoughts.
The night passed, and as dawn painted the sky in hues of pink and gold, Aemon rose to continue his journey. The North awaited, and the ancient magic that bound him to Balerion whispered of a destiny entwined with the impending threat beyond the Wall. With resolve in his heart, Aemon mounted Balerion once more, guiding the dragon northward toward Winterfell and the looming darkness that threatened to engulf the realm.
As Balerion soared over the lands of House Reed, Aemon marveled at the mysterious nature of Greywater Watch. The ancient castle, shrouded in secrecy, had eluded the gaze of many over the centuries. Aemon knew that the Crannogmen, the elusive people of the Neck, were skilled in the art of moving their home to avoid unwanted visitors.
Despite the vastness of the landscape beneath them, Aemon's attempt to locate Greywater Watch proved futile. The marshy terrain, interspersed with winding rivers and dense vegetation, concealed the elusive keep. Balerion's roars echoed through the swamps, a proclamation of Targaryen's presence in the North.
With a resigned sigh, Aemon urged Balerion to continue their journey. The plan to gather northern houses and march to the Wall remained unchanged. The Crannogmen, bound to their secretive ways, would remain a mystery to Aemon.
As Balerion circled over the marshy lands of the Neck, Aemon contemplated the enigmatic tactics employed by the crannogmen. The elusive nature of Greywater Watch had long confounded would-be invaders, and the strategic advantage of the terrain was evident in the failed attempts to conquer the keep. Aemon recognized the significance of securing the crannogmen's support, not only for their knowledge of the region but also for their unique skills in guerrilla warfare.
With a resolute decision, Aemon guided Balerion toward the heart of the Neck, seeking to make contact with the crannogmen who dwelled in the hidden recesses of the marshes. The challenge lay not only in finding Greywater Watch but also in earning the trust of a people accustomed to isolation and secrecy.
As they descended toward the boggy terrain, Aemon scanned the surroundings for any signs of the crannogmen. The landscape seemed to shift beneath the dragon's wings, mirroring the elusive nature of the keep they sought. Aemon knew that patience and diplomacy would be essential in gaining the cooperation of the crannogmen.
Aemon heard the sounds of movement to the northeast. He urged Balerion closer to it and soon realized it was the sound of rushing men and screams of blood lust. The sounds of battle echoed through the marshes as Aemon descended, his eyes narrowing to discern the chaotic scene unfolding below. The dim light cast long shadows over the boggy terrain, where the clash of arms mingled with guttural roars and the squelching of mud-soaked boots.
As Balerion came closer to the soggy ground, close enough for the trees to nearly touch Balerion's stomach, he bearly glided over the tree line. With a single flap of his wings, the winds picked up so harshly that trees were uprooted, and the gust of wind forced everything around like the push and pull of a hurricane.
Aemon's gaze fixated on the confrontation. A horde of Wildlings, perhaps a hundred in number, their unkempt forms moving with primal intensity, surged downhill toward a small group of Northmen of no more than two dozen. The Northerners, clad in armor dulled by the marsh's muck, stood resolute against the impending onslaught.
Among the defenders, one figure brandished a formidable pike adorned with a flag displaying the emblem of a black lizard-lion on grey-green—a clear indication that these Northmen hailed from House Reed. Aemon recognized the sigil, a reminder of the elusive crannogmen's loyalty to their ancestral home.
The Wildlings, armed with makeshift weapons, advanced with a ferocity that threatened to overwhelm the outnumbered defenders. The clash was visceral, the mud-soaked battleground becoming a canvas for the brutal dance of combat. Aemon felt the tension in the air as the fate of the Northmen hung in the balance.
Without hesitation, Aemon urged Balerion forward, the dragon's massive wings casting shadows over the skirmish. The sight of a dragon descending upon the battlefield momentarily arrested both Wildlings and Northmen, their attention diverted from each other to the new, unexpected player in the unfolding drama.
Balerion, the Black Dread, descended upon the marshy battlefield with a thunderous impact that shook the very foundations of the land. The colossal dragon's landing was a force of nature, sending shockwaves through the muck and causing every man in the vicinity to be thrown to the ground, caught in the grip of Balerion's might.
As the great dragon stalked forward, its scales gleaming like polished obsidian, a palpable sense of dread swept over the Wildlings and Northmen alike. The ferocity of Balerion's presence was enough to incite terror in even the bravest hearts. The Northmen, familiar with the ancient tales of Targaryen dragons, watched in awe as the legendary creature stood before them.
Balerion, towering seven hundred feet tall, far larger than the conquest that made him famous, surveyed the battlefield with a regal air. His eyes, as red as blood, glowed with a fierce intensity. A roar erupted from the depths of his powerful chest, a sound akin to rolling thunder that reverberated through the marsh. The sheer force of the roar was enough to make men clutch their ears in agony. Some began running but Balerion roared, roared like the living thunder and most men fell to their knees and covered their ears. The message clear, move and die.
No one dared to move as Balerion, the embodiment of death and destruction, presided over the scene. It was then that a realization dawned on the men below – atop Balerion's back stood a figure, small in comparison to the dragon but undeniably a dragonrider.
Aemon, having dismounted Balerion, strode purposefully towards the group of Northmen, his eyes scanning the faces for signs of recognition. He found that Balerion's presence was more than enough to keep everyone at bay due to no one wanting to anger the creature that stopped the fight. The Northmen, still recovering from the shock of Balerion's arrival, parted to allow Aemon through. The Reed banner, depicting a black lizard-lion on grey-green, fluttered in the marshy breeze, signifying their identity.
The Northmen of House Reed, clad in armor that bore the marks of the swampy terrain they hailed from, eyed Aemon with a mix of astonishment and gratitude. Aemon's presence, coupled with the legendary dragon at his side, marked a turning point in the battle.
Aemon descended from Balerion's back, his small frame in stark contrast to the colossal dragon behind him. The marshy ground beneath his boots squelched with each step as he approached the Northmen, who were now gazing at him with a mix of awe and reverence. The Wildings, still frozen in fear, cast wary glances at the Targaryen boy.
A wildling saw Aemon and looked at Balerion; they grumbled and cursed, but when they made a sudden movement, Balerion let out a deep rumble that showcased his willingness to burn them all.
A wildling spoke up, low enough that it was clearly intended for their fellow wildlings, but Aemon heard it. "A bloody child! The f*ck is that thing? How does a f*cking child tame something as long as the f*cking Wall is tall?"
A wildling woman with sun-kissed hair looked at the large, strong man who spoke. "Skinchanger, that's what he is. A strong one. I didn't even know a skin-changer could tame a thing that f*cking big."
"I didn't know the gods made something that f*cking big," another returned. "No ordinary lad could command a beast like that."
The Northmen, on the other hand, erupted in cheers at the sight of Aemon Targaryen, the son of Lyanna Stark, descending from the mighty dragon. The news of a dragon rider in their midst being Lyanna's son and the legendary Balerion was his mount spread through their ranks like wildfire, even if it was not needed since they all saw it.
Aemon turned to the Northmen and found a man who seemed to have been in charge. A shorter man with a pudgy belly. His long hair was of whips, almost like he had hair that reached his lower back but came from nothing. It was the deep green eyes that Aemon noticed; it marked the man as Reed, at least, it marked him as related to the three Reeds Aemon had during his lifetime as Jon Snow.
Aemon stretched his arm out for the older man, a head taller than Aemon, to clasp their arms with a smile as he looked at Aemon. "House Reed, I presume? I've heard tales of your moving castle. Impressive, though I must admit, hard to find."
The man was all smiles as the smile lines near his eyes shone how the man smiled more than frowned. "Aye, my prince. We've been expectin' the Wildings to make their way down. Never thought a dragon would arrive first.
"I am Aemon Targaryen, son of Princess Lyanna Stark and Prince Daemon Targaryen," Aemon told the man.
The crannogman looked to Aemon, smiled, and hooked his arm around a fellow soldier. "A Targaryen! Ha! We thought we were done for, but now we've got a dragon on our side."
"On that we know," he returned with a smile.
"You have her hair a curly, long mess, my prince."
"You don't need to finish every sentence with, my prince. I would rather not with the formalities," Aemon returned.
"You act like her, too," the man smiled as he reminisced. "Politer than her, but she hated the formalities just as much." he laughed as he looked at Aemon, and for the life of him, Aemon did not think the man was looking at him but rather through him to see Lyanna. "I am Jorah Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch."
"Lord Reed, I've come to rally the North against the impending threat from beyond the Wall.
"You're a boy," Jorah replied, looking at the five-year-old Aemon. The smile was gone and replaced with the harsh face of a Northman. "You don't even have a f*cking sword," he pointed out skeptically.
"Did you miss the large dragon behind you? I don't think the wildlings here did, and neither will be their kin," Aemon said. The pair looked at each other, staring for some time. Green eyes met the near-black-purple of Aemons. Aemon was calm, stoic, a form of emotionless only those of the Stark blood could show, for they were of the winter. "Winter is coming, Lord Reed; the wildlings seek to bring it to the North. It is high time they are reminded that the Starks rule over Winterfell, and it is they who bear the titles lords of winter."
Lord Reed said nothing as he looked at the small boy. The crannogman were short themselves, but even he was taller than a boy of five-name days. "Even with the Dread, I will not follow a mere boy so young that he pisses grass into a battle. I will not have the death of a child on my conscience when I face the gods. I will not follow a Targaryen, boy."
"There has never been a Stark who forgot an oath. And for a Stark, their first oath, before the Crown, is to the people of the North. I may not have the Stark name, but I have their blood. The blood of the kings of winter, the blood of the North. The North remembers."
No man said anything for some time as they looked to Lord Reed. The man looked to Aemon, anger etched into his face before a smile as grand as any North man could produce broke on his face. "The North remembers!"
"The North remembers!" the men of House Reed screamed in response.
"House Reed will stand behind House Stark as it has for a thousand years! And I will stand behind Aemon Targaryen. The Prince of the North!" he screamed. Many men screamed in response to Lord Reed's words; chants of the prince of the North echoed amongst the two dozen men. "What is your plan, your grace?"
"The Night's Watch can't hold back the tide alone; they are vulnerable in the South and will not survive if the Wildings attack from the South while the North is scattered around and leaving them to do as they wish. If the Wildings defeat the Watch, the remaining Wildlings will be free to climb the Wall, and the North will be lost to a force of over a hundred thousand wildlings, more than twice the North's number. We need to unite the North and prepare for the battles ahead. Will you join us?"
"Aye, my prince. The Reeds stand with the North."
"Get the rest of you soldiers from Greywater Watch to help chain the Wildings. Call the other crannogmen houses. House Blackmyre, House Boggs, House Cray, House Fenn, House Greengood, House Peat, and House Quagg. We will march North to Winterfell and get as many other houses as possible."
"It will take three days to summon them all, your grace," Lord Reed replied.
"You have one," Aemon replied. "The North has no time to give. Send riders and ravens. Tell the lords to meet at the Moat. Once all of them are there, march north to Winterfell."
"As for you?" the man asked.
"Once these Wildlings are in chains and the soldiers are here, I have to take Balerion and inform the other houses of the North and ensure the Wildings are not doing the same amount of damage as they would have here. House Reed is not the only Northern house that needs my aid and not the only house who are bannermen of House Stark."
Lord Reed nodded and agreed to the terms given; he ordered soldiers with letters sent to each crannogmen in the area and sent ravens to every keep in the north. The words were simple: "Winter was coming for the wildings, and with it came fire and blood." Simple enough and easy enough for the lords of their castles to know, only one person could claim the words of House Stark and House Targaryen. Even if the person was but a boy, if the words were said, the northern lords knew the crown would support them.
The one soldier that went to Greywater Watch returned with two hundred more soldiers from the keep. The soldiers were not there, to begin with, because Lord Reed had not gone to attack a group of wildings but to scout a small settlement that supposedly survived a wildling attack, which he did not believe even happened due to wildlings rarely going that far south.
Before the Aemon could climb on Balerion to leave, Lord Reed stopped the boy. He would not allow his prince to leave without some weapons to arm himself; Aemon had none due to leaving so quickly from King's Landing, trying to leave before anyone could stop him. He handed the prince a short sword and a dagger. He asked that Aemon not to leave the dragon, mostly as a jest because both knew he would not have done it; it would be foolish for a boy of five to fight any battles without a giant black dragon by his side if he had one, but he would ensure that Lyanna's son was ready for a fight if the boy was as stubborn as his mother to fight even if everyone tried to stop him.
Balerion took to the skies as they flew over the North for less than an hour. The icy skies allowed the winds. As Aemon soared through the northern skies atop Balerion, the mighty dragon's wings casting shadows over the rugged landscape, he set his sights on Flint's Finger.
